


Reward

by days4daisy



Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: (Not the Main Ship), Extra Treat, Implied/Referenced Dubious Consent, M/M, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-22 06:36:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,533
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9589118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: Draven finds the spiral staircase of bruises around Cassian’s ribcage. There are fading lines on Cassian’s back and red welts on his neck. The marks don't require an explanation, but Cassian still says, “It’s fine.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [atlanticslide](https://archiveofourown.org/users/atlanticslide/gifts).



General Davits Draven’s role is unfortunate but necessary within the Rebel Alliance. There are times when the diplomacy of Mon Mothma cannot be afforded. Some, like Senator Pamlo, are quick to fold under the Empire’s threats. Others, like Saw Guerrera, value revenge above long-term objectives. Draven’s intelligence team holds the Rebellion together, no matter the cost. His methods have been called intrusive and reckless, even morally bankrupt. But the importance of their missions cannot be disputed.

Draven reminds himself of his own importance now, seated at his work station on Yavin 4. The air hangs heavy with humidity even as night begins to fall. A bead of sweat rolls down the back of his neck; he does not bother smearing it away.

Captain Andor stands opposite his desk. The reprogrammed droid K-2SO is elsewhere completing post-op inventory. Andor is here alone at Draven’s request. He stands with fists balled at his sides. Dark, sleepless shadows carry his eyes. 

Draven knows Andor’s mission was successful. But he still asks, “Did you get it?”

Andor produces a palm-sized data pad from his jacket. He sets the device on Draven’s desk with more force than necessary.

Draven gives Andor a short nod. He leaves.

Alone, Draven flips the data pad on. Readouts appear; Imperial plans from Geonosis. The birth of a superweapon; classified information stolen from the hired smuggler Yavich Turham. A humanoid from the Mid-Rim with a lengthy rap sheet.

Mothma would have never given this order. But it had to be done.

***

Cassian skips dinner. He directs K-2SO to recharge, promising to follow up on the U-Wing’s maintenance in the morning. The showers are empty at meal hour, and he takes his time under the lukewarm spray. No one is around to comment on the bruises dotting a path up his side. They all have their scars, but finger marks tend to draw more attention.

Cassian returns to his room without detour. His quarters are empty and small, but they’re his. Solitude is one of the perks of a promotion to officer. The only light inside the room is a yellow circle flashing from a screen on the back wall. A signal.

Cassian orders the message up. Characters appear in white scrolling type: “01:30” He doesn’t have much time. 

Cassian lies stomach-down on his cot with his clothes still on. His mattress has never been comfortable, but it’s familiar. He's asleep within minutes.

At 01:15, Cassian rises without an alarm. He visits the lavatory, washes his face, and rinses his mouth. His hair has not dried completely from the evening’s shower. He runs weary fingers through it as he returns to his room.

At 01:30 exactly, his door receives two short strikes of a fist. It’s the same knock every time.

Cassian keys the door open long enough for the general to enter. Draven claims the center of his room. He wears his earlier uniform: green t-shirt with cargo pants, belted and holstered.

Draven glances at Cassian. Cassian takes his cue, shifting forward for a kiss. Draven returns the gesture with little passion. Movement without revelry. Acceptance without longing. Cassian prefers it this way. He shrugs out of his flight jacket. They stand chest to chest; years of hard combat under the general’s clothes.

Cassian begins to unlace Draven’s belt, but Draven pulls back. He stops immediately. “Did you go through medical?” Draven asks.

It’s unusual for Draven to speak during these encounters. “Yes, sir,” Cassian says. “Kay ran a diagnostic on our return from Pamolar too. Nothing to report.”

Draven catches Cassian’s chin and kisses him again. Cassian likes to be kissed. It allows his mind to shut down for awhile; a gift for a Rebel officer. Cassian knows his way to the general’s belt, even with his eyes closed. He pulls back just long enough to get Draven’s shirt over his head. The open crotch of Draven’s pants rubs against his own.

“Did Yavich find you out?” Draven asks abruptly.

Cassian frowns, both at the question and that Draven is speaking again. “No, sir. And we weren’t followed.”

Draven’s eyes are hard, as if he expects Cassian to say more. But there isn’t much to add, beyond what Draven already knows. Cassian undoes his own pants as Draven steps out of his. His briefs are navy blue, legs strong despite seeing less action in the field. Cassian removes his shirt, crumpling it into a ball and tossing it onto his work table. 

Draven finds the spiral staircase of bruises around Cassian’s ribs. There are fading lines on Cassian’s back and red welts on his neck. The marks don't require an explanation, but Cassian still says, “It’s fine.”

Draven’s eyes narrow. “Get on the bed.”

The bed is usually the last step of these late night encounters. A few minutes to finish the job. But if this is what the general wants...

Cassian peels off his underwear and sits on the mattress. Draven stands over him, naked and half-hard. He finds the lubricant bottle tucked between Cassian’s mattress and the wire cot frame. Cassian holds a hand out, but Draven does not give it to him. He sits beside Cassian, fist curled around the bottle. “Lie down,” he says.

Cassian’s frown deepens. Warily, he turns, presenting himself on his hands and knees. He's stopped by a palm flat between his shoulders. “On your back,” Draven corrects.

The general never faces Cassian when they fuck. Eye contact is personal. Nothing about this arrangement is personal. Bewildered, Cassian rolls to his back. Draven sits beside him. His kiss is soft at first, a gentle nudge that Cassian tilts his head towards.

His eyes open when his arms are guided out from under him. Fingers hook around his elbows, easing him all the way back. Draven’s kiss grows more intent. Cassian nods under him, a sigh between their lips. He starts to lift a hand. Draven presses on his elbow, denying permission to touch. The general's mouth is warm on his throat. Cassian sucks in a surprised breath. Again, he tries to move, but Draven’s fingers dig into his skin. “Don’t,” he grumbles. Lips trace his Adam’s apple, greeting it with a bite.

Cassian hisses behind his teeth. His hands ball into the bedsheets, perplexed eyes scanning the ceiling. What is this?

He and Kay captured everything in Yavich’s data banks, didn't they? Maybe there was more in a secret file. Something that didn’t show up on Kay's scanners. Did Cassian miss something? Is this Draven’s way of expressing disappointment?

Sometimes, missions fail. Cassian has stolen, lied, and killed for rumors that ultimately led nowhere. He had no reservations when Draven told him this mission would require everything. He belongs to the Rebellion; body, mind, and soul. Any chance of success was worth the risk. 

But the bruises on Cassian's ribs suddenly ache a bit more. His mouth tastes sour; memories of lips he did not want to kiss. He remembers his own shuddering breaths. _Relax,_ he told himself. _Breathe. Relax._ Cassian squeezed himself when the target was not looking; got himself as hard as he could manage. He smiled. He made the requisite sounds. Cassian was convincing.

It had to be done. Even if he failed.

He sits up under Draven’s persuasive hands, using the mattress as leverage. “Lie down,” Draven mutters. 

Cassian has been trained to follow his brusque tone like a dog whistle. But he has to know. “Did I fail?”

Draven frowns. “Fail?”

“Pamolar. Did I miss something?”

For once, it's the general who looks confused. “Hell, you got more than I thought the bastard had,” Draven answers. “It's all there. Everything about the transports to Geonosis. Now, lie down." 

The reassurance should be comforting, but Cassian hesitates. “Is that an order?” he asks.

Draven regards him in silence. Head cocked. Mouth set like stone. Finally, he replies, "It’s an order, captain.”

Still unsure, Cassian returns to his back. Draven's mouth traces Cassian's collar. His tongue dips into the hollow, and Cassian’s breath catches. Fingers comb through the soft hair on his stomach. The flat of thumbs scratch his nipples. Cassian arches in approval.

“Why do you think you failed?” Draven asks.

Cassian isn’t sure how to put his concerns into words. “Just a feeling."

Draven’s contemplation shivers against Cassian’s skin. “You didn’t fail,” he says. “You exceeded my expectations.”

Cassian isn't used to compliments. He struggles for the correct way to respond. “I… Yes, sir.” His chin lowers to his chest in time to see Draven’s lips close around one nipple. The nub disappears under his mouth. Draven's thumb scrapes the other, circling it in time with his tongue. Answering jolts shoot between Cassian's legs. His hips rise of their own accord. It's good. And strange. Why is he getting so much attention?

“Your service means a hell of a lot to this fleet.” Draven’s mouth follows the cleft of his chest. "And to me." 

Did something happen while Cassian was away? Maybe Yavich figured out their scheme. Was Cassian careless? He waits for the other shoe to drop. But Draven’s mouth is preoccupied, scaling each individual rib. He urges Cassian’s thighs apart, arousal bobbing heavy and ready. “You perform your duty without complaint,” Draven says. “We’ve asked you to sacrifice so much. I’ve asked you to sacrifice.”

“We all sacrifice,” Cassian mumbles, mystified.

He meets Draven’s stern gaze. “Don’t,” the general orders. “Unless I ask you to.” Don’t what? Don’t say anything? As commanded, Cassian keeps his mouth shut. The general's mouth rewards him, curling around the head of his cock.

Draven never gives him head. Startled, Cassian yelps, waist jutting off the mattress. Draven pulls back at the violent response. Cassian grips the sheets weakly. “Sorry. I didn’t…” He remembers, bewildered, that he isn’t supposed to be speaking.

Draven's uncharacteristic chuckle answers. “It’s all right,” he says. His mouth closes around Cassian again and begins to suck. A light, teasing pull. Cassian’s thighs shudder when fingers urge them further apart.

Draven’s tongue drags around his crown. A lubed finger echoes the touch, stroking Cassian’s hole. Cassian is used to preparing himself; it makes their sessions more efficient. He sucks in a breath, cock bobbing towards Draven’s lips. The lubed finger eases into him. Cassian grunts.

Draven lifts his head. “Ok?” he asks.

Cassian blinks bleary eyes open, only to find that Draven has stopped completely. Is he supposed to speak? “What? Oh. Sure,” Cassian answers lamely. “It’s fine.”

“Tell me if it isn’t.”

Cassian nods, because he isn't sure what else to say. The response seems to be satisfactory. Draven continues, pressing further inside. He keeps his eyes on Cassian as his finger bends. Knuckles shift gently, coaxing him to relax.

Cassian's low lidded eyes follow Draven’s movements. The general swallows his cockhead again. His cheeks draw in. Cassian squints, trying to focus past the heat pooling distractingly in his gut. 

Focus becomes harder when Draven adds a second finger. His slow, scissoring thrusts are agonizingly tender. Cassian isn’t used to tender, he’s used to getting things over with. No wasted time, just a simple fuck-and-go. Cassian’s waist rocks down on Draven’s fingers, silently demanding more.

Draven adds a third. Cassian feels himself stretch, and he opens his knees to accommodate. Draven’s free hand lingers against his thigh, thumb tracing lines down to the crook of his knee. Cassian’s leg twitches. He shivers around the fingers inside him. 

“Ok?” Draven asks again. Cassian’s chuckle comes out more strained than intended. He nods.

At his reassurance, Draven thrusts in. “You did good out there,” he says. “I count on you more than anyone else. You know that.” Cassian isn’t sure if it’s true, and he doesn’t care. The words sound so good. This _feels_ so good. Draven’s fingers press forward again. Cassian groans behind clenched teeth.

“You deserve this,” Draven adds. Cassian knows it's a lie, but he can't bite back the encouragement that leaks off his tongue. Draven thrusts again, fingers thick and firm. Cassian hisses under him. “Easy,” Draven murmurs. The fingers inside him splay and stretch. Cassian almost chokes on a breath. 

He can't quite hide his loss when Draven’s fingers leave him. Draven turns the lube to himself, slicking up his own cock. The general is already thick and blushed deep. Their nights together are so fast normally, this is one of the first times Cassian has been able to study him. His body is lean, still carved like a soldier. His cock, thick and mouth-wateringly red. Why isn't Draven letting Cassian prepare him? Everything else tonight is confusing enough - the lying still, the silence, Draven's compliments. But preparing Draven is Cassian's responsibility, and Cassian feels its absence personally.

Cassian does not speak up, though. He has his orders.

He feels the weight of Draven’s eyes on his body. His stare lingers on Cassian’s bruised ribs. Cassian’s strays to the hand glossing his cock. Short pumps of his erection under a tight-knuckled fist. Cassian sucks on his bottom lip.

“Did that bastard hurt you?” Draven's question catches Cassian off-guard.

He answers before confirming if he's allowed to speak. “Who? Yavich?” Draven glares hard into his eyes. Cassian's brows rise. “I’m fine...”

Draven holds his stare, seemingly unconvinced. Against all better judgment, Cassian's anger flares. Is this why Draven is being so careful with him? Does he think Cassian isn’t capable of handling his own business? “I'm fine,” he repeats, spit more forcefully than intended. It takes a few seconds to realize he's forgotten his customary ‘sir.’

Draven does not say anything else, but he returns to Cassian’s spread legs. He urges Cassian’s waist up. Cassian’s cock bobs against his own stomach.

Cassian is used to being on all fours for this final push. It’s strange to watch the general settle against him. His hands cup Cassian's thighs, urging them up. Cassian is spread open and slicked. At the first sign of pressure, he sucks in a breath. This part is the finale, always over quick and hard. 

But this time, Draven _stays_ where he is, buried just past the cockhead. A crease of concentration knots the general’s brow. One lube-slicked hand winds around Cassian’s erection, guiding him up towards Draven’s stomach.

Cassian’s fingers tighten in his sheets. His anxiousness hums inside, hot and frantic. Draven _still_ hasn’t moved. Instead, he lavishes appreciation on Cassian's cock. Draven milks him steadily, oiled and warm. Cassian leaves streaks of lubricant on Draven’s skin. Impatient, Cassian lifts his waist. Draven doesn’t move. Cassian bites back curses.

Draven’s thumb rubs under the crown of his cockhead. A tight sound escapes Cassian’s clenched teeth. He tries to relax, taking a breath. But he can _hear_ his heartbeat pounding behind his temples. An agonizing moment passes.

When Draven finally inches forward, Cassian groans his approval. His legs open to accommodate the closeness of the general's body. But Draven stops again, half buried. Cassian's fury mounts.

“Not happy?” Draven asks above him. Cassian isn’t sure if he has permission to speak. He's so aggravated, all he can do is glare.

Cassian has served under the general long enough to recognize his amusement. It’s in the subtle shift of his eyes and relaxed ease of his mouth. “Why is that?” Draven asks. Every retort flies to Cassian’s tongue. _You’re mocking me. You’re treating me with kid gloves. You’re punishing me without telling me why. You’re not fucking me. This isn’t how this **works**._

Cassian's mouth opens. But all that comes out is a desperate, “Fuck!” The word whistles out when he’s filled without warning. Hard, sudden pressure. Skin slapping skin. After being teased for so long, the sensation is overwhelming. Cassian’s fists strangle the bed sheets. His body jerks under Draven’s hands.

Draven's eyes devour every inch of his body. His stare reminds Cassian of who and what he is. He belongs to the Rebellion. He is Draven’s to command. But it's strange to see him vulnerable, folded brow signaling his struggle. Cassian wishes he could kiss Draven. Or touch him. Or _do something_. His throat goes dry.

Draven commences, slow but forceful. He builds into a rhythm as his hand continues its steady pressure. Cassian’s hands scour the mattress, craving something different to hold. He isn’t expecting Draven’s free hand to brace on his stomach. Firm and warm, glossed by lubricant. Cassian clenches under him.

This is too much. Cassian isn’t used to attention. He isn’t used to these slow, building thrusts. He isn’t used to hands showering attention on him, or eyes combing his body like he’s worth looking at. Every breath seems to come with a note of pleasure behind it, which isn't right. The general wants him quiet. 

But he can’t, when Draven gets the angle right. It’s hard and _perfect_ , warmth swelling through him. “ _Shit_ ,” Cassian gasps, head wrenched back. Draven squeezes him encouragingly. Cassian’s hair is a mess. Neck extended, pulling hickeys left by their target. His bruised ribs ache when he arches. Cassian doesn’t care. 

“Look at me,” Draven says, quiet but authoritative. 

Cassian doesn’t want to. It’s too much. He’s feeling _too much_. But, he forces his eyes open, chin to his collar.

Draven’s eyes are hot with arousal. And something else. Something almost...fond? No. That can’t be it.

Cassian does not get a chance to figure it out. He’s moving again. Deep. Perfect. Too much. Cassian bites the inside of his cheek. His vision swims. Draven's hand feels heavier on his stomach. Cassian wants it everywhere. His chest. His neck. On his face. In his mouth. 

Draven's fist is tight around Cassian’s erection. Cassian’s skin flushes hot. The grind of Draven’s waist leaves him sore and wanting more. On nights past, now is when Cassian would take his own cock and work himself to completion. Build himself for the general’s orgasm. His own, more of an afterthought.

But he isn’t allowed to touch. And Draven’s grip is just firm enough to get him close. Hard enough to make him teeter. But not quite there…

Draven can see everything. His frustration. His desire. How much he wants this. He’s ready! If the general would just let him.

Draven's grip tightens on the base of his cock. Holding him steady. Too steady.The sound of their bodies striking fills Cassian's quarters. Cassian chokes back curses, and the pleas that want to follow. Draven has to know what he’s doing. He has to know this is too much. It’s lasting too long. It’s _too good_.

Draven’s movements are mesmerizing. Each thrust, measured. He’s in no hurry, but every motion has a purpose. The maddening build of his thrusts. The perfect fist around Cassian’s erection. Just enough pressure to make Cassian want to jump out of his skin. There are no coincidences with Draven. This is _for_ Cassian.

When Cassian's mouth opens, a strangled sound comes out. Incoherent, but asking. The hand on his stomach scritches, lazy affection. Cassian’s knees tighten around Draven’s body. 

“All right,” Draven says, lower. The hand on Cassian’s stomach shifts up to his chest. Renewed pressure fists his cock. The right pressure. Pleasure sparks inside him, too good to last. 

Two curses become one unintelligible murmur when Cassian comes. His body twitches, orgasm drawn out with Draven buried inside him. Cassian's gaze blears over, and he lets his head fall back. His heart pounds in his chest. Dazed, he wonders if Draven can feel it under his hand.

Cassian is aware of warmth inside him; Draven, finding his own release. But Cassian is too satisfied and spent to help him along like he normally does. It’s been a long time since Cassian felt this way after sex. He feels drugged, stuck in the limbo of sleep and waking. His arms and legs are numb. 

The pressure leaves Cassian empty. He blinks up at the ceiling. It takes three tries for him to succeed in combing a hand through his hair. Cassian swallows hard. He’s broken out in a sweat. 

It doesn’t surprise him when booted steps leave his quarters. Draven never stays. Cassian would never ask it of him.

It _does_ surprise him when a beep signals his door reopening. Draven places his keycard on the table and returns to the bed. He’s holding a compress, warm and damp. Cassian frowns at the cleaning touch. “I can do that,” he protests, slurring like he’s had one too many.

“I know,” Draven says. “Sit up.” Cassian lifts his waist dutifully. He’s sore from being filled, but the warmth below feels good.

He lowers with a sigh when Draven is done. Pleased and exhausted, his eyes close.

One cracks open when the weight shifts on his cot. It's the general, settling with his back against Cassian's headboard. His fingers thread in Cassian's his hair. “Are you staying?” Cassian asks. Draven never stays.

Draven glances at him. “I might,” he replies. “Ok by you?”

It doesn’t make any sense. But when Draven’s thumb crosses Cassian's temple, he can’t keep his eyes open. Or think at all, let alone find a valid reason to say no. “Yes, sir,” Cassian mumbles. “You need anything?”

He’s already half-asleep when Draven answers, “No. You've done enough.”

*The End*


End file.
